


Fireworks Outside

by johnllauren



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Compliant, FACE Family, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren
Summary: Alfred was positively glowing. The boy knew how to throw a party, that was for certain. He’d been entertaining all day, and hadn't shown any sign of exhaustion. His extraversion was nothing short of a miracle, especially given the fact that he was raised byArthur, of all people.Alfred clinks a spoon on his wine glass. “Okay, everybody! Out to the deck, please, for the fireworks display!”The first firework goes off with an earth-shatteringboomand Arthur jumps out of his skin.Or, flashbacks happen, but they deal with it.
Relationships: America & Canada & England & France (Hetalia), America & Canada (Hetalia), America & England (Hetalia), America & France (Hetalia), Canada & England (Hetalia), Canada & France (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	Fireworks Outside

**Author's Note:**

> title from mitski's fireworks, which oddly didn't inspire this, but i listened to it while writing and knew I found my title immediately 
> 
> (there are very brief, vague mentions of england's brothers that imply they've hurt england in the past. this isn't intended to character bash & is based on the strips about the uk bros when they were younger, with england getting hurt)

Alfred was positively glowing. The boy knew how to throw a party, that was for certain. He’d been entertaining all day, and hadn't shown any sign of exhaustion. His extraversion was nothing short of a miracle, especially given the fact that he was raised by _Arthur_ , of all people. 

Alfred clinks a spoon on his wine glass, still lounging in an armchair with a buzzed Kiku practically on top of him. “Okay, everybody! Out to the deck, please, for the fireworks display!” 

There are a few woops - two, actually, from Mathias and Gilbert respectively. The crowd doesn’t hesitate to get outside - the fireworks were the last part of Alfred’s party, and the time was already pushing 11. It was _late_ , in the opinion of most countries, and they wanted to go home - or, at least, to the airport or their hotels in America. 

Francis laces an arm around Arthur’s waist, guiding him out to the deck. Both of them are more than a little drunk, and the action makes Arthur’s face warmer than it usually does. He lets his head fall onto Francis’s shoulder, savoring the touch. It’s no surprise that every nation in the world knows about their relationship, and every country here is most definitely smashed, so they don’t get any looks for the affection. 

“Hurry up, Alfie!” Matthew shouts. He’s holding a pint of beer and swinging it around with more gusto than he probably should be, given the fact that half the drink has spilled onto the deck. Gilbert slaps him on the back, and more of the beer leaves. 

Alfred laughs. “I’m trying!” He says. Then, “Hey everybody! Let’s get a countdown!” 

The more fun-loving members of the group begin counting down from five. Arthur just looks at Francis, shakes his head at their… friend-slash-child and his ridiculous fanfare. Francis is in the middle of saying something to him (he’s not listening to Francis because their faces are really quite close and he’s mainly thinking about how it would feel to press his lips to Francis’s and kiss him and kiss him and- 

The first firework goes off with an earth-shattering _boom_ and Arthur jumps out of his skin; his feet actually lift off the ground and he moves away from Francis, hugging his arms to his chest. 

“ _Arthur?_ ” Francis asks, a whisper. He’s concerned.

Arthur shakes his head, trying to calm himself down so he can think properly again. He takes a deep breath, feels the air enter his lungs, and he thinks he’s okay, thinks he can stand a couple sudden noises, but then _another one_ goes off and he’s back at square one. 

Francis is talking to him. Francis is looking him in the eyes, saying things, looking concerned, but Arthur _can’t hear him._ Loud noises are bad, they mean bad things, they remind him of his brothers and of getting yelled at and of getting hurt and then suddenly he’s realizing that he’s not safe he’s not safe he’s - 

He feels something touch him and he almost screams, but he doesn’t, because they’ll punish him for complaining, and then the touch doesn’t hurt him. Arthur looks up and he realizes a few things: Francis is the one touching him, his arm around Arthur’s shoulder almost protectively, and Arthur’s arms are up over his head, bracing. Francis starts walking towards the door back into the house, leading Arthur with him, and somehow Arthur wills his feet to keep moving forward, following Francis’s direction. 

Somehow Francis gets him to sit down on one of Alfred’s ridiculously plush couches. He sits down next to him, not touching him anymore. “Arthur?” He asks again, hesitant. 

Arthur struggles to take another deep breath, and ends up failing. It feels like his breath is stuck in his throat and he doesn’t know if countries can suffocate but hell maybe he’ll be the first- 

“Are you alright?” Francis asks. He sounds like he’s underwater or something, far away from Arthur, voice distorted. 

He shakes his head. It feels weird to admit that he isn’t okay, but his brothers aren’t here and he’s _safe_ \- maybe, maybe he’s safe, he thinks he’s safe - he is safe when his brothers aren’t here. 

“Can I touch you?” Francis’s voice is so gentle and it starts to convince him that Francis might be safe. 

It takes Arthur a second to feel like he’s in control of himself, but he eventually nods, and it’s probably jerky and shaky but at least it’s a nod. Francis’s embrace is probably the only thing that could ground him right now. He thinks he can feel Francis move closer to him, and then Francis’s hands are on his shoulders, resting there first to make sure this is okay. He continues, moves closer to Arthur and moves Arthur closer to him, wrapping his arms entirely around Arthur, Arthur practically in his lap. Arthur’s forehead rests on something - Franic’s shoulder, perhaps; he doesn’t have the energy or the willpower to check. 

In the distance he feels hands in his hair, and then he realizes that it’s not distant, Francis is touching him. The jostling between this world and whatever world his head keeps going to is getting too much, and he’s lightheaded and he’s not sure how much of this he can take and -

“Arthur, you’re safe. It’s July 4th, and we’re at Alfred’s house, celebrating his birthday. I’m here, it’s Francis, I’ve got you.” Francis says, rubbing Arthur’s back. 

Maybe the worst part of this is that fireworks are still going off outside, and they’re loud and scary even though they’re muted. Arthur makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and Francis just holds him tighter. 

“I’m here, Arthur.” Francis says, his voice soft and slow, his arms not leaving their position.

Arthur doesn’t respond. He’s not sure if he can. 

A pause, and then Francis is talking again, but his voice is low and Arthur can’t hear it over his headache that is _throbbing_ by now. 

“It’s okay, Arthur, I’m talking to Mathieu.” Francis says, but Arthur never heard Matthew enter the room. That means his senses aren’t as sharp as they used to be, that means he isn’t safe. Francis cards a finger through his hair, gives him another, “shh, it’s okay, Matthew is safe,” and only then does Arthur realize he had been making noise.

“Matthew is going to get Alfred, okay? And we’re gonna figure out a way for you to feel safe, and it’s going to be okay.” Francis tells him. 

Arthur didn’t want Alfred to find out about this, didn’t want to ruin Alfred’s fucking party just because he can’t handle anything. But he isn’t exactly in the shape to argue right now, and here they were.

The fireworks keep going, and it feels like every time another one lights Arthur just starts shaking harder. Francis doesn’t let go of him, which makes him easier to trust as the seconds go by, but Arthur is still scared he’ll leave. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a distinctly American whisper. 

“Yeah, yeah, take him to my bedroom.” Alfred is telling Francis. He sounds worried. 

“What about the noise?” Francis asks, and Francis sounds even worse.

A pause. “It’s, ah, soundproof.” 

Another pause as Arthur can only guess Francis fixes Alfred with an approving paternal look. If he didn’t feel like everything is imploding around him, he’d chide the both of them for their filthy, filthy lives. But he can’t stop shaking and he doesn’t trust himself to talk, so he stays silent. 

“Can we go into Alfred’s bedroom?” Francis asks, lips only inches away from Arthur’s ear. Arthur nods. 

“Do you want to walk, or can I carry you?”

“I’ll walk.” Arthur says, and he hopes his legs are steadier than his voice. 

They are, it turns out, and he’s able to get off the couch and into a standing position, Francis next to him, keeping his arm around Arthur’s waist protectively. He’s been in Alfred’s New York apartment enough times to know where the bedroom is, at least, so they shouldn’t have a problem getting there. 

And then another firework goes off, and it catches him off-guard now that he isn’t safe in Francis’s arms. He jumps again, and his knees buckle and his head is spinning and his whole body is screaming at him to _run_ and-

“I’ve got you.”

His thoughts are interrupted by Francis’s voice, soft and calming and _his_. It’s only then that Arthur realizes he’s on the floor again, Francis sitting in front of him, looking into his eyes, and his hands are cupped over his ears and he’s cowering in fear. 

“Chou, can I carry you?” Francis asks, his voice warm and sweet like honey, and Arthur nods. He doesn’t trust himself to walk anymore.

Francis lifts him into his arms with a grace that’s born only out of care and practice. Arthur buries his face in the crook of Francis’s neck and Francis brings the two of them to Arthur’s room, shutting the door behind them. Almost immediately the noise dissipates, sounds of people shouting and fireworks booming nearly entirely gone. 

“You’re safe,” Francis says, placing Arthur on Alfred’s (unmade, of course) bed. 

The noise might be gone but that doesn’t stop Arthur from shaking, and Francis climbs into the bed and holds him, just like they were on the couch. They stay like that, Arthur silent while Francis murmurs sweet nothings to him in a mixture of French and English, until the shaking begins to subside and Arthur feels like he might be in charge of his body again, slowly tightening his grip on Francis’s shirt as if he’s trying to pull Francis closer, as if that’s possible. 

“How are you feeling?” Francis asks, his lips brushing against Arthur’s forehead. 

“I’ve been better.” Arthur says in a weak attempt at humor. 

“I know,” Francis says. He presses a kiss to Arthur’s temple, soft and sweet and caring, and Arthur leans into it. 

Francis’s thumbs are rubbing Arthur’s sides idly, and his hands are warm as they rest on Arthur’s hips. Everything about Francis tethers him to the earth, to the bed, in a way that almost surprises him, how safe he feels, how one person could make him feel this way. He thinks, briefly, about how this is what love is, and it makes him feel warm. 

“Is it about your brothers?” Francis asks, treading into the topic lightly. His voice lowers into a near whisper because he knows Arthur doesn’t like talking about this out loud, that he’s always afraid they’ll be overheard, no matter where they are. He’s so considerate it almost hurts, loves Arthur so much it makes Arthur’s heart ache, like he’ll never be able to understand how much love Francis has for him, how much love Arthur himself has for Francis. 

Arthur nods, still afraid to say it, but Francis doesn’t judge him for it. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks instead. 

Arthur shakes his head and moves to bury his head in Francis’s shoulder. Francis moves a hand to card through his hair, gentle, reverent. 

“That’s alright, love.” Francis tells him, and he means it, and Arthur can tell he means it, and the amount of love he’s being shown makes him want to cry. 

“Do you want to just stay here for a little bit? Like this? We don’t have to talk.” Francis says, pressing a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head. 

And Arthur nods, because that’s exactly what he wants, and of course Francis knows that’s what he wants. He looks up and meets Francis’s gaze, leaning forward slowly, carefully, and then they’re kissing, Francis’s hand on the back of Arthur’s neck, holding him steady. And Arthur kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. 

Five minutes later, they’re still sitting there, just looking into each other’s eyes, not needing words to have a conversation. There’s a soft knock at the door, and Francis and Arthur both know Matthew well enough to know it belongs to him. 

“Come in,” Francis says, and the door opens slowly, revealing Matthew holding a cup of tea. 

“How are you holding up?” Matthew asks Arthur, handing him the cup of tea. 

The kindness is negated slightly by his choice of cup (it’s obnoxiously American, with the flag on one side and “I like my coffee black and my tea in the harbor” printed on the other) but Arthur takes it anyway. 

“I’m better, Matthew, thank you,” Arthur says, though his voice is still shaky. So are his hands, he realizes, but Francis is already on top of that, helping him hold the mug. 

Matthew smiles. “I kind of had to check up on you, Alfred and I were worried.” he says, throwing in a, “You know, gotta check on the elders,” lest he seem too sincere. 

And it makes Arthur feel warm, knowing he has a family like this, now: one that cares about him, and checks on him, and loves him. And he loves them, too. Perhaps more than even he knows.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: lafayettesass


End file.
